It is true that all hopeless romantics are sadomasochists in a manner of speaking.
We get hurt; yet we don't run from the pain.
We build a nest around our bleeding, gaping wound
and enjoy the agony of sweet nothing.
And then with time,
the suffering becomes a part of us -
a never extinguishing fire that burns the living shit out of us
but also keeps us warm in those darkests of nights
when life seems to have lost all its purpose.
We are nothing but a few naked bodies without our suffering.
Comments
Post a comment